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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196300">Cobwebs In My Mind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing'>Prim_the_Amazing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Mind Control, Web Avatar Martin Blackwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:07:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,289</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, something inside of Martin changes. Like a switch flipping inside of his head. It feels like seeing the world clearly, for the first time in his life. All of the strings connecting everything and everyone, suddenly so obvious and tangible. </p><p>He doesn’t notice if he loses a few things along the way. If he stops caring about certain things that he’d used to care so, so much about. That used to seem so important. Obviously, they weren’t as important as he’d thought, because he’s seeing clearly now, and he doesn’t see what the big deal was any longer. He doesn’t get it. </p><p>What does it matter what Jon thinks is best for him, when he’s so obviously wrong? </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>251</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cobwebs In My Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It sort of kills Martin, the way Jon doesn’t take care of himself. How he shows up to work with dark bags underneath his eyes, how he’ll work the whole day through at his desk if Martin doesn’t remind him that he should eat, and then reminds him three more times until it finally sinks in. How scars keep showing up on his skin, awful twisted things that look like they </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He wishes that Jon wouldn’t get hurt. That he’d eat, that he’d sleep. That he wouldn’t look so ragged and worn down all of the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if he can’t do that, then he wishes Jon would at least let Martin take care of him for him. Jon won’t, though. He’s gotten nicer about it lately, but he still won’t let Martin take care of him. He’ll let Martin bring him tea, and drag him off to lunch, and he’ll nod his head and make empty promises about going to bed on time and not dragging himself off to work at the crack of dawn. But he won’t let him do anything that </span>
  <em>
    <span>matters. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s frustrating. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> frustrating. The only thing stopping him from doing what he wants to do so much, what Jon </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is Jon himself and his ridiculous refusal to be taken care of by either himself or anyone else in the world. If Jon would just-- if he’d just change his mind-- if he’d just see what’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>best for him--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One day, something inside of Martin changes. Like a switch flipping inside of his head. It feels like seeing the world clearly, for the first time in his life. All of the strings connecting everything and everyone, suddenly so obvious and </span>
  <em>
    <span>tangible. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t notice if he loses a few things along the way. If he stops caring about certain things that he’d used to care so, so much about. That used to seem so important. Obviously, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>weren’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> as important as he’d thought, because he’s seeing clearly now, and he doesn’t see what the big deal was any longer. He doesn’t get it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What does it matter what Jon thinks is best for him, when he’s so obviously wrong? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon blinks, and looks up from the statement follow up notes he’d been reading. Or, trying to read. The letters had been swimming in his eyes a bit, to be completely honest. It might be the time to turn in soon. Just after he’s finished wrapping up this one last statement. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> about the Circus, which is so very important. Any more information he can get on it is deeply appreciated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Martin standing in the doorway to his office, clad in a soft cardigan with a worried, disapproving furrow between his brows. Jon winces a bit, eyes guiltily flicking over to the clock on his wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” he says. “What are you still doing here, so late?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He may be a workaholic, but Martin isn’t. It used to be something he looked down on him for, but honestly, if one put his schedule next to Martin’s, no one in their right mind would call Jon’s the healthier one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came back,” he says. “I left and then-- I had to come back. I had to find you. I was hoping you wouldn’t be here so late, but I knew… yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is something the matter?” he asks, his fatigue going to the back of his mind as alarm rises up within him. He almost lets compulsion coat his words, with how urgently he needs an answer to that question. He rises out of his chair, approaches Martin to look him over for-- blood, injuries, anything. “Did something happen? Are you alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am</span>
  <em>
    <span> I</span>
  </em>
  <span> alright?” Martin asks, like it’s an absurd question. He’s looking at Jon so strangely, so intensely, that he almost feels like they’re having two separate conversations. Like he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing </span>
  </em>
  <span>something. He’s not unused to this sensation, but something feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There’s an intangible feeling of danger crawling up his spine, with nothing for him to blame it on. It feels like when he’d had the Not Them masquerading as Sasha in his Archives, the unfocused dread driving him to distraction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” he says a little bit helplessly, and almost reaches out to touch his shoulder, before remembering himself. “I don’t-- what’s bothering you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he</span>
  <em>
    <span> is </span>
  </em>
  <span>bothered, Jon can see that much. He knows Martin that well, at least, at this point. He looks distressed, as he looks at Jon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you even planning on going home tonight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… the cot would probably be wisest, at this point. What does that--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have you eaten today? Did you have breakfast? Did you eat </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> besides the lunch I made you have?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-- yes. Of course I’ve eaten since,” he lies, stiltedly. He normally wouldn’t, but Martin looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>upset,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he panics a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin takes a deep breath, and then laughs to himself shakily. “Right. Okay. Christ, it’s good that this-- that I’m different now. I can actually help.” He looks into Jon’s eyes, suddenly very solemn, uncomfortably sincere. Jon doesn’t know how to do anything but look right back at him. “That’s all I want to do, Jon. I want to help you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, I know, Martin,” he says, taken off guard. He’s so confused, and no less alarmed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something is wrong danger is close you’re in danger something is wrong,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is still throbbing at the back of his mind, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “--what do you mean, that you’re different now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shows him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin keeps him silent until he gets him back to his flat. No one gives them so much as a sideways look on their way. Jon is walking under his own power, after all, straight backed with even steps. One would have to look closely in the late evening gloom to see his expression, to see that everything isn’t… normal. Martin makes sure to steer them clear of people on their way, so that doesn’t happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a relieved sigh when he finally gets to lock the door behind him, when he can loosen the strings that only he can apparently see around Jon. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What did you do to Martin?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon demands, whirling around to glare at him, and Martin is helpless to do anything but answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am Martin,” wells out of his mouth, as impossible to stop as blood from a wound. “I’m just… taking the initiative, finally. Things are only getting worse, it feels like.” He laughs mirthlessly. “I need for you to be okay, Jon. That’s all I need.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looks less outright hostile and more wary now. Confused, cautious. He’s keeping a careful distance between himself and Martin, and</span>
  <em>
    <span> hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> lances through his chest as he notices that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin, I think you’re being controlled by the Web,” he says. That startles another laugh out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No more than any of us ever are,” he says. The strings are </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” Jon says, and he’s not understanding, he can see it in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin remembers that he doesn’t have to do this, actually. He doesn’t have to have a frustrating, useless conversation with Jon, trying and failing to convince him to rest or to look after himself. He can just… do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh,” he says, and amazingly, Jon’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes go wide, his hand going to his closed mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s still not used to that. To being </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> listened to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could get used to it, he thinks. He really could. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin makes Jon sit in a chair at his small, cramped kitchen table. Martin’s bustling at the stove, smells of food wafting in the air. Jon’s mostly grinding his teeth and trying to make his muscles cooperate, to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand up, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it isn’t working. His body isn’t listening to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s terrifying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m, um, not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>best </span>
  </em>
  <span>cook? But I know how to make some simple stuff. Here, have some cheesy omelette.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts a plate and cutlery down in front of Jon. It looks good. Jon feels sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Martin says coaxingly, sitting down in the chair next to him. “Eat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without his say so, his hands jerk towards the cutlery. They visibly shake as he uses it to cut into the food. He almost can’t get anything on the fork-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sighs, and Jon’s hands go still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon,” he says, voice slightly strained like he’s got the beginnings of a headache. “Please, stop resisting? You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small flicker of hope goes through his chest at that. His resistance </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>having some effect. Maybe he can tire Martin (how has it come to this, how has Martin become one of the things for him to be afraid of) out, and leave? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Martin says. “Fine. Just stay still, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the cutlery out of Jon’s stiff, unresisting hands. His hands are moved for him by something that he can’t see or feel into his lap, out of the way. Martin cuts into the food, lifts a forkful of it up to Jon’s mouth, and says, “Open up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s mouth opens. Martin feeds him, like he’s a child. Jon chews mechanically, swallows. Martin smiles, and he almost looks proud. Jon wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“There,” he says. “Okay, yeah. This is-- this is way better. I can do this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t get to say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin feeds him the whole meal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin thinks that he’s starting to get the hang of this. He can make Jon’s body do whatever he wants but it’s… a strain. Like he’s playing tug of war with someone who’s weaker than him, but only just barely, enough so to make it an </span>
  <em>
    <span>effort</span>
  </em>
  <span> for him to move Jon as he wants. Moving Jon’s muscles in just the right way to make just the right movements takes focus, and fighting against Jon takes focus, and… it’s just really hard to do both at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keeping Jon still, though? He’s pretty sure that he could do it asleep with how easy it is. He just has to wind the strings around his limbs until he can’t move without them getting in his way. That’s why it’s easier to, say, get Jon to sit still while he feeds him instead of making Jon feed himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is why Martin follows Jon into the restroom, instead of just sending him in with orders to get clean. He doesn’t want to get a migraine, after all. It’s just easier this way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s all. Easier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he says, his voice a touch higher than normal. He clears his throat. “Just a quick shower, followed by brushing your teeth, and then you can finally get to bed at a reasonable hour for once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Jon’s jaw trying to move through vibrations in the strings that surround him, feels it as a tingle in his fingers that he instinctively understands. He decides to let it happen, not snapping Jon’s mouth shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” he asks, strained. “What is your </span>
  <em>
    <span>plan</span>
  </em>
  <span> here, Martin?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--” he says, and stops. The plan had been to get a solid meal into Jon, and then get him to bed. So far as that goes, he thinks he’s been doing a pretty good job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jon’s right. Beyond the immediate future, this isn’t… sustainable. Or, no, it could be. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be. He just has to find a way--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to wash your hair,” he says decisively, putting that aside for now. He’ll figure it out soon, he just needs to get Jon into bed first. “Take your clothes off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never thought he’d see the day when he’d say that, and Jon would actually move to obey. He can’t help but watch and marvel a bit as Jon’s fingers haltingly start unbuttoning his own shirt. Eventually, he shakes his head and moves to help him. Jon tries to speak again, he thinks, but now isn’t the time for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brown skin is revealed, clothes falling to the floor. There are so many scars littered across it, and Martin can’t help but trail his fingers across them. So many things and people that have touched and hurt Jon, when they never should have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never again, he decides. He’s never ever going to let someone hurt Jon again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is breathing loudly through his nose, and he’s trembling faintly. Martin wishes with a distant pang that he could see any strings attached to his heart or his mind, but… that seems to be out of his reach. He’ll just have to wait until it sinks in for Jon that of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he isn’t in any danger around Martin, he never has been, never will be. He just… doesn’t get to make his own decisions any longer. He’s bad at that. It’ll be better for him, he’ll see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs a soothing hand down Jon’s now bare back, and then turns on the shower. As the water warms, he takes his own clothes off, and he pulls on the strings that’ll make Jon walk into the spray of water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He washes Jon’s hair. He remembers that it had been used to be kept short and neat, professional and masculine. But along the years as disaster after disaster has unfurled, regular haircuts are one of the things that Jon has sacrificed along the way. Martin’s always sort of guiltily been grateful for that. He just-- he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice </span>
  </em>
  <span>with longer hair. Good. He’s lost track of how many times he’s fantasized about running his hands through it. And now he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gently and thoroughly, he works shampoo into Jon’s thick, dark hair, and then he makes Jon tilt his head back underneath the spray, and works the soap back out of his lovely hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” he says with satisfaction. He’s still slowly running his fingers through Jon’s hair even though it’s as washed as it’s going to be by now. He just likes the feel of it. It’s as wonderful as he’d always imagined it to be. “Now you’re all nice and clean. Isn’t that good?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to hear an affirmative, wants to hear Jon acknowledge, no matter how grudgingly or reluctantly, that perhaps this new situation isn’t all that bad, not in its entirety. There are things he can appreciate about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, all he hears is Jon’s unsteady breathing. Once he starts paying attention to it, he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it until now. It’s so loud that it seems to rattle inside the acoustics of his shower, ragged and almost pained, like an asthma attack. But Jon doesn’t have asthma. Does he? No, Martin would’ve surely noticed by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches out and twists off the water, turning Jon around by his shoulders to get a better look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look on Jon’s face breaks his heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Jon,” he says softly, and reaches out and wipes a tear away from Jon’s face. He looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>panicked,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the whites of his eyes visible all the way around. “You’re not getting enough air into your lungs. Slow down, and take a deep breath.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t listen to his advice, of course. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>let</span>
  </em>
  <span> Martin take care of him. Martin takes his own advice, stopping to take a deep breath before he continues. He doesn’t need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask</span>
  </em>
  <span> any longer, to take care of Jon. He can just do it. Reaching out for the strings, he harshly grabs the wildly jittering ones connected to his lungs. Mercilessly, he pulls and lets it go in an even, steady rhythm. Jon’s breathing follows suit, slowing down, growing less shallow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, this only makes him look more scared, hands coming up to touch his throat like he’s being suffocated instead of helped. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>shaking. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin doesn’t know if there’s any string he can pull at to make </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> stop, as much as he wants to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you to bed,” he says uneasily. Jon just needs a moment to calm down, a nice rest. That’s all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s too busy controlling the strings attached to Jon’s lungs to make him walk out of the shower under his own power-- at least, not without being entirely certain whether or not he’s going to slip and fall on the wet tile. So instead, he just picks him up in a bridal carry and carries him out. It’s exactly as easy as he’d always imagined it would be. He’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>light.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He needs to eat more, honestly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets him down and makes him stand still as he wipes him down with a towel. Jon’s still tense, still shaking. Martin can control his breathing, but he can’t make the tears stop from trickling down his face, apparently. That doesn’t feel fair. He picks Jon back up and carries him to the bedroom and lays him down on the mattress, pulls the covers up over his shivering, naked form. Martin knows that it isn’t from the cold, but it makes him feel better to bundle him up in a duvet. Jon deserves to be pampered, coddled. He just needs to realize that himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to sleep now,” he tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t work. Of course it can’t be that easy. Martin doesn’t have any strings attached to Jon’s thoughts or feelings. He can’t make Jon sleep. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> make him lie down in a warm, soft bed, and wait for exhaustion to take care of the rest. Changing into a sleep shirt and some pants, he gets underneath the covers with Jon. Jon’s breathing hitches at that, and Martin sighs and takes over his breathing for him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span> right without help,” he laments, getting comfortable in his bed. He makes Jon move over, turn onto his side. He nestles against Jon’s back, tossing an arm over his middle. They fit together perfectly, he’s pleased to notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” Jon gets out from between grit teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh,” Martin says. With a twitch of his fingers, he knows that he’s closed Jon’s eyes. “Sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It should work. It should, it should, it should. Jon has a warm meal in his belly. He’s washed clean and warm. He’s under the covers of a soft bed, warmed by another body pressed up close to him. He should be sleeping, resting. Instead, he’s tense. Martin can feel it in every line of his body, the way he’s pressed up against him. He frowns. Why does Jon have to make it so difficult, every single step of the way? All he wants to do is </span>
  <em>
    <span>help. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes himself up on one arm, and looks down at Jon. His eyes are squeezed shut instead of gently closed, like a child desperately hiding from an imaginary monster by badly pretending to be asleep. His hands are clenched into the sheets, white knuckled. Still shaking. Still a few tears slowly slipping down his face from his eyes, every few moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s heart melts. He can’t stay mad at Jon. Never has been able to, but especially now. He’s not trying to make things hard. He’s just scared. He just doesn’t understand yet that he’s safe, that he’s okay, that he’s going to be taken care of for every single day for the rest of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t want for Jon to be scared. He wants for him to rest, to go limp and pliant, the furrown between his brows easing, his expression going open and peaceful, his mouth soft with sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is his responsibility now, because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>made</span>
  </em>
  <span> him his responsibility. He has to find a way to fix this, to make it okay. Help him relax, fall asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What usually helps Martin fall asleep? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Duh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lies back down, pressed up against Jon’s back. He slips one of his hands down beneath the sheets, sliding it down Jon’s chest, his stomach. Jon’s stomach jumps at the contact, a sharp inhale of air puncturing the silence. Martin lets go of his iron grip on Jon’s lungs. He wants to focus on this. He just weaves his threads around Jon’s limbs to make him lie still, and he focuses on what his hands are doing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” Jon says, quick and panicked. “Martin, Martin </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are you doing?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh, it’s okay. I’m just going to help you fall asleep. I’ll make you feel good. Take care of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand finally comes home between Jon’s legs, curling around a limp, soft dick. Jon makes a small whimper at that, and Martin kisses his bare shoulder soothingly and gives his cock a bit of a squeeze before he starts slowly stroking it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Jon says raggedly. “Please don’t do this, Martin.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know what’s best for you,” Martin says fondly. He really doesn’t. But that’s fine, because he has Martin to know what’s best for him now. Jon’s going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> well taken care of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon says a few more things, more nos and pleases and Martins. His breathing goes loud and frayed again, but that’s okay. It’s normal to have unsteady breathing during this. He’s supposed to be breathing tight and shallow for this, so Martin allows it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s cock is warm and so soft, so lovely to touch. He keeps gently stroking it and it slowly starts to harden, filling up underneath his touch. Jon pants and whines, and once when Martin thumbs at the head of his cock, he moans. He goes still and shocked silent at that for a long moment, and Martin peppers kisses across the back of his neck in approval, and a little bit of smug pride as well. See? He can take good care of Jon, make him feel so good that he can’t help but </span>
  <em>
    <span>moan.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Such a beautiful little noise. He wants to pull as many of those noises out of him as he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so perfect,” Martin tells him, his lips grazing the delicate shell of Jon’s ear, his voice quiet in the intimate darkness of his bedroom otherwise filled only with the slick sound of Martin’s hand on Jon’s cock and Jon’s helpless, adorable noises. “D’you know that? ‘Cause you are. You deserve </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I wanna give you everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon sobs brokenly, but that’s okay, sobbing can be good. He must be overwhelmed. He squeezes Jon’s cock and enjoys the way Jon’s hips twitch against the strings wound all around him that he can’t see or feel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to take such good care of you,” he promises him reverently. “I’m going to make sure you eat well every day. I’m going to bathe you, feed you, clothe you. I’m going to make you</span>
  <em>
    <span> rest. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And I’ll give you this, too, because you deserve to feel good. I’m going to make you feel so good you can’t stand it, and then you’ll be good for me and sleep. I just want to take good care of you, you know? That’s all I want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of every breath there’s a little moan now, a little sob. Martin speeds up the motions of his hand, not so mercilessly slow and gentle now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay for you to rest,” he tells him. “It’s not selfish or lazy, Jon. You don’t have any choice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a loud cry, Jon comes all over Martin’s hand, his back arching against him. Martin lovingly kisses the closest part of Jon that he can reach, and retrieves his hand. He looks at it. It’s… sort of messy, and he really doesn’t want to leave the comfortable little pocket of warmth he’s made underneath the covers with Jon. Instead, he holds up his hand to Jon’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clean it up for me?” he asks him. It’s not a question, of course. Jon’s tongue is warm and wet, and he adores every one of the little kitten licks he gives Martin’s hand. It makes him want to feel Jon’s tongue somewhere else-- and god knows that he’s hard enough for it-- but no. Later. He’s taking care of Jon right now, helping him rest. Being selfless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes Jon turn over though, so that they’re facing each other. Jon’s not crying any longer, he’s pleased to note. He just looks exhausted, and a bit shell shocked. In a good way, hopefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses Jon’s lips. It’s a sweet and chaste thing. He takes hold of one of his hands, and makes him close his eyes again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sleep now,” Martin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in only a few minutes, he does. All tuckered out, every single one of his needs thoroughly met. Martin indulges himself, and just</span>
  <em>
    <span> looks</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a while. Jon asleep is just as lovely as he’d hoped. Better, even. Martin doesn’t even have to pull at anything to get Jon to nuzzle in closer towards Martin’s warmth, his softness. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> being cradled and held when he doesn’t have any waking, silly, anxious thoughts telling him that he shouldn't. He kisses his forehead, feeling so fond that it’s almost a physical ache in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin holds Jon, soft and asleep and safe, and he knows that he’s doing a good job. And he’s going to keep doing a good job. Jon’s going to get used to being controlled soon enough, and then he’ll calm down and appreciate all of it. Until then, Martin’s just going to keep on taking the best possible care of him. Feeding him, cleaning him, clothing him, protecting him, giving him orgasms and helping him rest. And most importantly of all, he’ll love him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s already been doing that for a long time now, but he won’t ever stop. </span>
</p>
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